


Mission Parameters

by gallifreyburning



Series: Time Lord Disaster Boyfriends [1]
Category: Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: M/M, absolute crack, but crack with feelings, no physical force is involved just a heaping helping of time lord mind games, noncon/dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-15 13:06:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18499564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: Andred is on a mission to bring down the Celestial Intervention Agency, and he's only just beginning to grasp everything this job entails.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, massive thanks to my beta reader extraordinaire [redtailedhawk90](http://redtailedhawk90.tumblr.com), whose feedback makes my work readable and whose friendship is a treasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set six months before _Gallifrey 1.1: Weapon of Choice_.

Andred lays on his back, on the damp flagstones of the Citadel’s catacombs. He’s vibrating from the marrow out, falling apart and coalescing at the same time, like all of universal entropy and gravity have tried to squeeze inside his mortal frame. He’s never had the misfortune of being stretched across the event horizon of a black hole, but he imagines the sensation would be similar.

Regeneration is a bitch, especially at the long end of a violent encounter.

As he blinks to clear the vision in his brand new eyes, and pulls in a breath that stings his fresh lungs, his reborn neurons begin to fire. It dawns on him what he’s just done: _shot a senior CIA agent,_ the Coordinator’s right hand, no less! When he's called to account, it won’t mean much that Torvald shot first. Andred’s climbed out on this branch, gone rogue without the Chancellery Guard’s blessing to deal with the threat the CIA poses to Gallifreyan society. It isn’t as if his Castellan responded well when he brought her evidence of the CIA’s grossly xenophobic secret agenda. Of course, his Castellan isn’t married to an alien, so she failed see the urgency of the situation.

Seizing his staser and lurching to his feet, Andred stumbles across the vault, tripping over rubble to deal with Torvald before he can get another shot in.

When he reaches the other Time Lord, bile springs into Andred’s throat. Torvald hasn’t regenerated, and he definitely won’t. The remains of his skull are a crater, grey slate showing through vaporized brainmeat, amber blood pooling around his head like a moat.

The staser drops from Andred’s trembling hand, and he pulls in another aching breath. “Shit. Oh shit. _Shit!_ ”

What will Leela say, when he tells her what he’s done?

He can’t tell her. He oughtn’t. Leela isn’t exactly predictable, but he knows her well enough be sure that restraint and reasonable conversation won’t figure into the scenario.

A sharp crackling noise shatters the silence, and then a voice from the communicator attached to the CIA agent’s belt: “Commander Torvald, report.”

Dizzy, Andred forces another breath through his new lungs. Is that Narvin’s voice?

“Commander, what is your status?”

President Romana might have outlawed the Oubliette of Eternity, but he’ll face plenty of other unsavory consequences for this. And if he’s branded a criminal, what happens to Leela? Even if she’s recently become friendly with Romana, that won’t necessarily afford her any protection; she’s still his wife, and their fates are linked. She could lose her visa, be jettisoned off-planet at the first opportunity, set adrift in the galaxy without him.

If anyone finds out what a mess he’s made of his own little rogue investigation, it’ll be catastrophe for him personally, for Leela, and for the chancellery guard. He can’t step off this road yet, not until he has enough proof to justify his actions and bring down the CIA for good.

“Torvald! Report!”

Andred reaches for the communicator. “Yes, Coordinator. I’m here.” Pandak’s ghost, is that what his voice sounds like now? So … young?

“Torvald?”

“Sir, there’s been an incident with the chancellery guardsman. He didn’t survive the meeting.”

A beat of silence. “And your status?”

“Regenerated, but I’m fine,” he replies.

Another, longer beat of silence. “I’ll send a team to recover the body. Report to medical immediately, and then I want you in my office.”

“Yes, sir.” He clicks off the communicator and begins stripping, so he can trade clothes – and lives – with a dead man.

Andred has only been inside the CIA building twice in his life, but he’s no fool; he did research before launching his solo infiltration campaign. He found a few ancient plans of the building – several thousand years out of date, but the best he could do given the CIA’s obsession with secrecy. He has a vague idea where he’s going, as he navigates the corridors of the CIA Tower, but at a certain point he has to stop and ask for directions.

“It’s me, Torvald. New me. Regenerative trauma, I can’t remember how to get there. You understand,” he says, the word _Torvald_ rolling off his tongue easier than he’d imagined it might.

He leans on this _regenerative trauma_ crutch during the entire medical exam, when he can’t produce details about Torvald’s chapter and CIA clearance codes. With each question, each poke and prod from the Agency surgeon, he’s certain he’s been found out. Thankfully, his cells are still vibrating and his every pore flooded with all manner of hormones, every part of him caught up in the mania of his new body and personality.

If he was thinking clearly, he might not have the nerve or the recklessness to follow through on this harebrained scheme. As it is, when the exam is finished, he blinks to clear his vision, and clenches his fists to steel his nerves, and steps into the Coordinator’s office.

Narvin looks up from his desk, a datapad in hand. Andred can just make out the results of his medical exam on the screen – his vision is sharper than before, with these new eyes. The Coordinator rises to his feet, gesturing to a chair. As Andred sits, Narvin comes to stand in front of him, inspecting him critically.

The jig is up. He’s been found out. All of his bumbled bluffing in the medical exam gave him away.

“What have you done to yourself?” Narvin asks, leaning against his desk and crossing his arms, so he looms over Andred.

“It – ah – I wasn’t intending –”

“Your hair is blond now.” Narvin says this in a voice as flat and toneless as the drone of a skimmer on autopilot. Unconsciously, Andred reaches up to touch his head. He hasn’t seen himself in a mirror – he hasn’t any idea what he looks like.

“It is?” he mumbles, at a complete loss.

“Tell me what happened.”

Andred spent the entire medical exam mentally rehearsing for this debrief, composing a plausible scenario loosely based in reality, but fictitious enough to pass muster. “It was an ambush,” he begins, and as he continues with his explanation, Narvin’s expression tightens, and he steeples his fingers in front of his chest.

When he finishes, Narvin simply says, “I had the corpse disposed of. This incident will remain top secret.”

“You won’t – I mean, shouldn’t we contact the guardsman's Castellan?”

“The medical report said you were having cognitive difficulties, Torvald, but I didn’t expect you to be quite so … obtuse. Unless this is part of your new personality? You haven’t regenerated into an imbecile, have you?”

The Coordinator’s cheeks are slightly flushed, his eyes glittering with more than just professional appraisal. Even as Andred’s stomach unclenches with the realization that Narvin has bought his act, he’s getting away with his Torvald charade, another sort of anxiety begins frothing in his gut. Narvin leans forward, and Andred leans back to re-establish a professional amount of distance.

“Hmm. Less rugged. A bit boyish,” the Coordinator says, reaching out to touch his chin with a curled index finger. As Narvin nudges his head left and right, he has the distinct feeling he’s being inspected like a piece of machinery. “Brown eyes, this time. And this _hair,_ there’s so much more of it than before.” He tips Andred’s chin up, raising his face, and his other hand strokes his cheekbone and through his hair, fingernails carding across his scalp. His touch is gentle, almost tender.

Gripping the arms of his chair to keep himself from bolting and giving away the game, Andred swallows. “S-sir?”

“I do like the way that sounds on your new tongue. You may say it again.”

“Pardon?”

“Dear me,” he murmurs, his thumb straying along Andred’s jaw, and pressing lightly into the corner of his mouth. “You really have been through something, haven’t you?”

With a sinking stomach, Andred realizes this _something_ he’s going through has just begun. “Yes, sir.”

“ _There_ it is.” Narvin leans forward and, before Andred can collect his thoughts or reason a way out of this situation, their mouths meet.

His eyes pop wide and he sits frozen in shock as Narvin kisses him, lips moving and breath warm against his cheek. Is that – is that tongue he feels, tickling along his bottom lip? The other man is so close, he can see the evening’s stubble on his jaw and a stray silver hair in his sideburn.

After a moment, Narvin breaks contact. His eyes still closed, he lets out a measured exhale and murmurs, “I thought I’d lost you.”

Regenerative mania still whipping at his neurons, Andred wrestles with his shock. Impersonating Torvald was one thing, when it only entailed stepping into the man’s job. Stepping into his personal life is another thing entirely – a personal life that apparently intimately involves the CIA Coordinator.

Of all the people Torvald could have been with, he chose Narvin – dreary, morally slimy, and the very source of every one of Andred’s problems.

Also, the very target of his investigation.

Staring up at the Coordinator, he realizes the other man’s usual sneer is gone. Instead, Narvin’s face holds a sort of softness as he regards him in return – as he regards _Torvald_. That softness is just the thing that will allow Andred to ply him for information, to accomplish his mission. What better perspective to study an enemy from, than beside him in the field _and_ in bed?

Andred swallows, his mania-driven bravado overriding the still, small voice crying out about what a _terrible, terrible idea_ this is, and _Rassilon’s ghost what will Leela think_?

“It would take more than an upstart chancellery guardsman to kill me,” Andred says, his voice only quavering a little. Glancing down at himself, his new body, in this new CIA uniform they gave him in the medical suite, he continues, “You approve, then?”

One side of Narvin’s mouth lifts the barest fraction – the closest thing to a smile he’s ever seen on the other man’s face. “Don’t tell me you have a coquettish personality to go along with these boyish looks, Torvald. I couldn’t bear that.”

“I wouldn’t dream of flirting with you, Coordinator. My body may have regenerated, but my professionalism hasn’t,” Andred says, with hardly any hesitation at all. Holding Narvin's gaze, he reaches out to brush his flushed cheek with the back of his knuckles, a gesture of tenderness delivered with a wryly lifted eyebrow. 

“Good man.” Clearing his throat, Narvin stands and returns to his seat behind the desk, obviously satisfied with this particular physical interaction. “That Borellian wine we’ve been saving for a special occasion; we’ll open it tonight.”

Is this wine in Tovald’s quarters? Narvin’s? Do they _share quarters_?

Andred swallows as he stares into the shadowy, mysterious realm of Torvald’s life, and all the surprises waiting for him to discover. He touches his tongue to his lip - his skin tastes different, in this new body, mingled with the lingering flavor of Narvin's kiss. It isn't exactly delicious, but for the greater good Andred decides it's palatable. “A fine idea, Coordinator.”

“Dismissed, Torvald.”

He rises to leave on steady feet, his eyes still fixed on Narvin – his eyes fixed on his mission. “Yes, sir.”


	2. Chapter 2

That evening in Torvald’s quarters (separate from Narvin’s, thank Rassilon) Andred’s post-regenerative mania wears off, and he descends into mild panic.

He fucked up in so many ways today, he can’t begin to count them.

While he’s standing in a dead stranger’s flat, Leela’s home alone, wondering why he’s late. If he goes through with this harebrained scheme and continues living Torvald’s life, tonight is the first of too many she’ll spend worrying about him. After pacing for a span, Andred ends up in front of Torvald’s communication panel, because he has to tell Leela what he’s done. She won’t understand – she’ll be angry at his recklessness and lack of forethought; she’ll chide him for his poor hunting instincts and bad strategy in cornering his prey; he’ll have to talk her out of barging into the CIA and confronting Narvin directly – but at least she won’t spend any sleepless nights worrying.

Before he can push the first key to call his wife, the door to Torvald’s flat chimes.

It’s Narvin, with the bottle of wine.

As Andred ushers the coordinator inside, he decides he was wrong, he _can_ count today’s fuckups and rank them in order of magnitude. Fuckup the third: murdering Torvald. Fuckup the second: putting on a dead man’s bloody CIA uniform. And his gold medal, first-place fuckup: acknowledging Narvin’s romantic overtures. As he walks beside Narvin, he can practically hear the word in each of his own shuffling steps, _left_ -right, _fuck-_ up, _left_ -right, _fuck_ -up.

He still hasn’t figured out if he’s got the nerve to put any literal fucking in this fuckup of a situation. He’s been with men before; his time as a cadet in the chancellery guard earned him a certain reputation for frolicking with the other soldiers in his unit, no matter their gender. He even had a proper boyfriend for a while. But now he’s a married man, and he rather loves his wife. He hasn’t been with anyone but Leela since their bonding ceremony.

But he’s also playing a role as Torvald, and being undercover means making certain concessions to mission requirements.

Narvin makes himself at home in Torvald’s flat, monologuing about mundane CIA business as he pulls out wine glasses and pours. Andred sits on the couch, hands fidgeting in his lap, and watches the other man with the wariness of a tafelshrew eyeing a prowling cat. When Narvin comes to join him, handing over a wine glass, he sits on the opposite end of the couch, leaving acres of cushion between them. He doesn’t try to cozy up, or repeat the hair-ruffling and kissing incident in the office.

There’s no hint of vulnerability or softness in his demeanor, now. Whatever sentimental impulse Narvin felt in the wake of Torvald’s near-death experience seems to be gone, replaced by a wariness that mirrors Andred’s own. He continues with deceptively casual work chat, using the conversation as cover to size him up. He’s observing every mannerism, cataloguing his physical features, weighing him on a scale Andred doesn’t quite understand.

Andred spent some time this afternoon studying this new body and found it satisfactory – slightly taller than before, copious amounts of thick blond hair, lean and muscular enough to keep up with Leela. He was consumed with thoughts of her when he regenerated, and he ended up a perfect physical specimen for her tastes; she ought to be delighted, once she’s done yelling at him for regenerating in the first place. But these _boyish looks_ , as Narvin phrased it earlier, seem off-putting to the Coordinator. Torvald’s final incarnation was bald, with craggy features and a sturdy build, a world of difference from the man Andred has become.

Here and now, under Narvin’s critical eye, he realizes he can’t allow himself to keep mooning over his wife. He’ll give himself away without meaning to, and blow his chance to mine the CIA for information. He’s still committed to this plan, and he can’t quibble over the terms of engagement – he’s backed himself into this corner, and for Gallifrey’s future, for his own sake, and especially for Leela, he has to see it through to the end, no matter the personal cost. There’s no other option.

He drains his wine in one long gulp and puts the glass on a nearby table.

“Torvald, that vintage was six hundred and thirty-three years old!” Narvin sputters in horror. “Have you lost your mind?”

Andred blinks, trying to clear away the memory of Torvald’s smashed skull, grey pieces of brainmeat littering the flagstones.

“I’ve lost several things today,” he replies, aiming for suave and landing somewhere closer to tremulous. He shifts closer, elbow resting on the back of the couch, body angled toward the other man. “But nothing that can’t be found again.”

“For Rassilon’s sake, get hold of yourself,” Narvin says, rising to his feet just as he reaches for him. He seems genuinely annoyed at the attempted tenderness, and it dawns on Andred that he’s miscalculated, this seduction will require a vastly different skill set than seducing Leela.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Andred snaps, his nerves getting the better of him. “I regenerated today. Do you want reassurance that I’m the exact same man I was before? I can’t give you that. You know I can’t. I’ve changed, and if that means you find me unsuitable, then just say so.”

Narvin sets his wine down with a clink and circles behind the couch. Andred resists the urge to twist his head around and peer up at him. “I want to know that you’re still the sort of Time Lord who I can trust to have my back,” he says, his presence a looming stormcloud. “To do what he’s told when he’s told to do it, who prioritizes Gallifrey and the Agency above everything else. I want to know that you haven’t devolved into a sentimental fool.”

Andred rises to his feet and turns to face Narvin. “Rich words, coming from the man who kissed me in his office and admitted he was afraid he’d lost me. Which one of us needs to get hold of himself, Coordinator?” He sucks in a breath. “Admit it, you’re just angry at me for regenerating.”

“You know how _fond_ I am of change,” Narvin deadpans.

“I’m not exactly thrilled with this situation, either, if you want to know the truth,” Andred sighs.

This momentary display of vulnerability seems to provoke Narvin, his stern expression shifting into something more predatory. “Take off your shirt.”

Andred gapes at the sudden demand, warm dread tingling across his back. His gaze drops to the floor, and he can feel his face grow hot with blood. Even without looking, Andred feels Narvin staring at him expectantly, challenging him to prove he’s still the sort of man to do what he’s told when he’s told to do it – that he prioritizes Narvin, and by extension the CIA, above everything else.

Obediently, he reaches up, undoing the clasps on his shirt and wadding it into his fist before casting it onto the couch. In an automatic motion, Narvin picks it up and folds it neatly, draping it across the cushion so it won’t get wrinkled. Then he turns a critical eye to Andred, displaying the same cautious curiosity he had in his office that afternoon. He comes around the couch and stops in front of him, lips pursed as he traces his thumb in a circle around Andred’s navel, and then runs his splayed fingers from hipbones to the hollow of his neck, tracing the dips and curves of his toned chest.

No one else has touched this new skin yet, and Andred’s nerve endings feel as sensitive as live wires. His breath stutters and his hands flex unconsciously as he forces himself to stand still, not giving in to the urge to back away. During his career in the chancellery guard, he held the line in the face of riotous shobogans and invading Sontarans; he certainly won’t retreat from a randy CIA Coordinator.

“I suppose I’ll have to break you in again,” Narvin says thoughtfully, with the same spark of interest a skimmer collector might show for the newest showroom model.

“You will?” Andred blurts out in surprise, before he can stop himself.

“Obviously.”

“And you think I’ll just let that happen?”

“Oh, I hope not. It’s hardly worth the effort, if you just let it happen,” Narvin replies, arching an eyebrow. His hand slips around the back of Andred’s neck, whose shoulders hunch in response. But as Narvin nudges the base of his skull, he bends forward and presents his mouth for Narvin’s pleasure. He smells of soap and clean laundry – vastly different than Leela’s scent – and his neatly trimmed fingernails press into the nape of Andred’s neck. He opens his lips and Andred follows suit, tongues meeting. Andred’s toes curl inside his boots as he tries to reconcile himself to the fact that it’s so much colder than the human mouth he’s kissed for the last twenty-five years.

When Narvin pulls away, he drags his fingertips over Andred’s shoulder and down his chest before stepping back with one eyebrow lifted in satisfaction.

“Bring the wine, Torvald.” And with that, he strolls into the bedroom.

Andred stares after him, then at the front door of the flat. He gives one last thought to everything that lies beyond it, all of the consequences and consolations if he walks out now and abandons this mission, and returns to Leela and his former life. After a moment, he seizes the bottle of wine and takes a long swig before following Narvin to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

The sex isn’t particularly remarkable; in fact, Andred finds it somewhat dull. Narvin comes to his quarters on a predictable schedule, twice a week, exactly three spans after the end of the business day. Andred never instigates these encounters, but he also never turns the other man away. Their time in the bedroom has the same sort of brusque efficiency as their working relationship at the Agency. It isn’t a connection built on a great deal of affection or tenderness, but it is a never-ending power play that Torvald always loses.

Andred settles into the drudgery of Torvald’s days and nights, and spends his spare time digging for proof to bring down the CIA. He’s surprisingly good at impersonating Torvald, and managing his workload. The longer he lives in this role, the easier it is to suppress thoughts of Leela and his other life, the more his personality twists to fit into the CIA’s mission. In spite of the fact that the previous Torvald was running several problematic personal side hustles, Andred’s file of compromising information on Narvin and the CIA stays pitifully thin, no matter how much digging he does.

He does everything he can to avoid seeing Leela, and ruthlessly squelches his occasional urges to check in on her from afar. He doesn’t let her linger in his thoughts, especially not in the bedroom when Narvin finishes with him for the night and they spend a few nanospans lying next to each other, catching their breath. This is the moment where Leela would fling herself across Andred, whispering her adoration, kissing his face and overflowing with human impulsiveness and enthusiasm. Instead, if Narvin bothers to linger, he stares at the ceiling and rehashes the day’s business, as if this is the conclusion of a late-night staff meeting.

The strange thing about regeneration is that Andred remembers the way Leela felt when he made love to her; he remembers the heat of her human body, the tickle of her lips on skin, the her humid breath in the shell of his ear as she whispered how much she loved him. He remembers how wildly his hearts thumped at her words, and how he derived such purpose and belonging from these points of connection they shared. But the memory is muted in his new body, filtered through new neurons, held at a distance by nerve endings that have never felt Leela’s touch. Regeneration dimmed those vivid colors, and the longer he chooses to suppress those memories, the less hold they have over him.

The only person who’s touched his new body, in any capacity at all, is Narvin. And when they’re done fucking, instead of cuddling, conversation, or sleeping in each other’s arms, the Coordinator brings him a towel from the lavatory so he can clean up and leaves him to spend the rest of the night alone. It isn’t as if Andred wants to cuddle with Narvin specifically, but at a certain point, after so many months of this same dry routine, the sex they’re having doesn’t begin to relieve his touch starvation.

This life of secrets is an emotionally sterile one. Andred’s never had difficulty making friends, and in this new incarnation he still finds himself craving deeper connections with the people around him. But Torvald didn’t have friends because he wasn’t the sort who naturally attracted people into his orbit, and the fact that Andred is inhabiting another man’s life means he can’t bring anyone into his confidence.

After months of this half-life, he’s withering from the inside out, and realizes that if he doesn’t figure out a way to connect with someone –  _anyone_ – he’ll end up a worse man than Torvald ever was.

Late one evening – not a designated night for a tryst, entirely out of bounds – he stands at the door to Narvin’s quarters. When Narvin answers the chime, he glances up and down the corridor to make sure no one else is watching before stepping aside and letting him in.

“Don’t tell me that Agent Praxam botched her mission,” he says. “I was waiting for the report from the ops team, but if you’re here in person, I expect it’s the worst-case scenario.”

“No, Praxam hasn’t reported in. We’re still waiting for word. I was just –” Andred blows out a breath, sparing a glance at Narvin’s face before fixing his eyes on the wall behind the other man, instead. He’s never been in this flat before, and it’s exactly what he expected: large and austerely minimalist. A collection of data pads rest on the couch alongside a discarded heliotrope-colored blanket. In the back of his mind, he brushes against the memory of crawling under a fur-lined duvet with Leela, the heat of her bare skin pressed against his body, the scent of human hormones and animal skins filling his senses. He closes his eyes and swallows, forcing the sensations into darkness once again.

“Torvald, you look ill. Should I call someone?”

“No, no need. I’m not ill. I’m only tired.”

Narvin’s left eyebrow arches halfway up his forehead. “You came all the way here to tell me you’re tired?”

“I wanted to see you.”

“About …?”

“Just … to see you.”

“Ah.” The baffled expression on Narvin’s face fades into surprise, his next word pitched higher in disbelief: “Really?”

He shifts from one foot to the other, as if his balance is slightly off. It’s the first time Andred’s ever seen the other man unsure of what to do with himself.

Seizing the opening, Andred steps forward and takes his face in both hands, bringing their mouths together. Normally there’s a certain amount of mutual shoving, nipping and teeth involved in their kisses, but this time he holds Narvin steady, his kisses gentle and tender, his desire unpretentious. He makes a noise halfway between a sigh and a whimper, pressing his face closer and opening his lips, ravenous for anything resembling affection.

Narvin’s hands come to rest at his waist, fisting into his robe as he rocks forward. As their tongues meet and he sucks Andred’s bottom lip into his mouth, he responds to the other man’s raw need with curiosity he’s never displayed before. Andred slips one hand around to cradle the back of his head, his other arm folding around his torso to bring their bodies fully together. He aches to hold someone and to be held, to rest his head on the other man’s shoulder and know that he isn’t alone. But he doesn't imagine Narvin would be keen for a simple hug, so he gets what he needs the only way he knows how - pressing his growing erection into Narvin's hip and grinding against him at a slow, steady pace. This evidence of his desire evokes the response he wants, Narvin's arms slipping around his ribs and his hands flattening against his shoulders, so Andred is enveloped in an embrace. Andred doesn't try to restrain his second whimper as he leans into the other man, his kisses deepening, his hunger growing even as it is fed. 

After a few microspans, he shuffles forward, pushing Narvin into the living room.

“I’ve got work,” Narvin mumbles against his mouth, as his calves bump the front of the couch. Even through both of their robes, the other man's erection digs into the place where Andred's hip meets his thigh. Without a single power play or demand for submission, in response to a tender, freely-given gesture of affection, Narvin is already as hard as Andred's ever felt him.    

“There’s always work,” Andred replies between kisses, fumbling at Narvin’s neck to unhook his robe. “It will still be there when we’re done. Just put your hands on me now.”

“Are you trying to give me an order, Torvald?” he huffs, still obviously searching for familiar ground in this strange new situation. His stubble scratches Andred’s lips as he sucks his way down Narvin's jaw and neck, yanking the front of his robe open and shoving it down his arms, so it falls onto the couch.

“I’m asking,” Andred whispers, trying and failing to keep his voice from cracking. “I’m begging. Please.”

Narvin pushes Andred away, head tilted in concentration as he flicks the clasp of Andred’s robe with one finger, pulling it open. He takes his time divesting him of his shirt and unbuttoning his trousers. One hand slips into his long shorts, the other carding into his hair and pulling. Andred’s head falls back, neck exposed as his hips move and he thrusts into the other man’s grip.

“Say it,” Narvin pants into his collarbone. Usually this command comes out in a sneer, or a cold command. This time, it’s a breathy invitation.

“Coordinator,” Andred murmurs obediently, because he's been trained well. He seizes Narvin’s head again, because he still needs to kiss and be kissed, to feel the breath of another living creature in his lungs. He pulls their faces together and opens his mouth and their tongues move in concert. Eventually, they dispense with the rest of their clothing and move to the bedroom. This encounter isn’t their usual brusque sort, but a languorous exploration of each other, instead. 

Eventually they end up blissfully spent, lying side-by-side in silence as they catch their breath. Andred shifts his hand atop Narvin’s, fingers curling in a way that invites a response. His gaze never moving from the ceiling, Narvin flips his hand, so their palms meet and fingers thread together. Their elbows touch, and he hears a soft click as the Coordinator swallows in the darkness. Moving slowly, as he would with a nervous animal, Andred shifts onto his side and gazes at Narvin’s profile. He slips his free hand onto his chest, fingernails trailing through hair, and feels the steady thump of his right heart.

A few long, heavy microspans later, his gaze still firmly glued to the ceiling, Narvin asks, “Are you certain you're quite all right, Commander?”

“I’m fine,” he lies, letting his eyes slip closed. The other Time Lord’s skin is cool, the echo of his second heart discernible in his pulse. Andred says the thing he’s been trained to say after these sexual encounters, but this time there’s a spark of authenticity in the words – he’s grateful to be in Narvin’s company, grateful not to be alone. “Thank you, Coordinator.”

Narvin’s hand comes up and rests atop Andred’s on his chest. He takes a deep breath, and Andred swears a shiver runs through the other man’s body. With a hint of tenderness his voice hasn’t held since that first afternoon in his office, he murmurs, “Torvald.”

Rassilon’s ghost, what Andred wouldn’t give to hear someone call him by his real name. “Hmm?”

“Good man.”

Andred decides he’d be pushing his luck if he tried to draw him into an embrace and settle into a proper cuddle, no matter how strong the urge. Instead, he caresses Narvin’s palm with his thumb and squeezes his hand.

“Narvin,” he says, the word far huskier than he intends. Not  _coordinator_  or  _sir_ , no titles or formality, just his name and nothing else.

Another long, heavy pause. Still careful not to look at Andred, Narvin blinks a few times and clears his throat, as if trying to pull himself together. “I – ah – I have a mission for you at daybreak. It has to do with that business with the timeonic fusion device on Kikkrit’s moon, four days ago. You remember?”

Even as he steers the topic back to business – an inevitability, with Narvin – he continues to hold both of Andred’s hands. “How could I forget,” Andred replies. “You threatened to strip me of my rank and send me back to Agency basic training when I lost that briefcase.”

“We’ve traced the timeonic device to Gryben, and you’ll be the CIA’s representative on the mission to retrieve it. You’re traveling with the President’s new alien pet. Leela, I believe?” Time slows to a crawl and Andred freezes, all warmth from their encounter draining from his body. The idea of not just seeing Leela, but of being on a mission with her – and all the interaction and closeness that entails – it squeezes the air from his lungs, and his respiratory bypass kicks in. He feels Narvin's heartsbeat speed up beneath his hand, in response to the sudden tension in his body. “Torvald?”

“Yes?” he manages, only slightly strained.

“No need for concern. I have every confidence you'll redeem yourself, and won’t let this alien woman get in the way of the Agency’s business.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You always do.”

Andred pulls away and sits on the edge of the bed, his back to the other man, so he doesn’t have to hide the effect this bombshell has had on him, or stop his hands from shaking. How is he supposed to maintain this Torvald charade when he’s face-to-face with Leela? He’ll needs every nanospan beforehand to prepare himself, to steel his nerves and bury himself in his assumed identity. He also desperately needs a shower, and to wash Narvin's taste out of his mouth. 

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Andred sucks in a deep breath. “I should go see about Agent Praxam’s report, and begin preparing for the mission to Gryben.”

He pulls on his CIA robe without bothering with the rest of his clothes and stumbles out of the flat, leaving Narvin behind in the dark. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during _Gallifrey 2.1: Lies._ A chunk of the dialogue in this chapter is also taken from that episode.

As the timeonic fusion device incident – and its legal fallout – drags on, Andred and Leela's paths cross more and more often. Each encounter, every microspan he spends in her presence, he finds himself naturally drawn back into the time lord he was before he regenerated. Not once does he return to Narvin’s quarters or repeat the vulnerable encounter they had that night. The only time he lets himself switch completely into being Torvald is when Narvin stops by his flat for their regularly scheduled trysts. On his knees, on his back, saying the rehearsed words he knows Narvin wants to hear, he isn’t Andred at all anymore; he’s just the living facsimile of a dead man.

Being stranded in Torvald’s life has been one kind of prison, and so when Andred’s secret identity is exposed and he gets thrown into _actual_ prison, he feels freer than he has in months.

He isn’t worried when he explains everything to his Castellan, after the incident on Earth with Leela and the real Torvald and the train. He walks into his cell without much protest. After all, the Castellan will no doubt take the full story to President Romana, and she’ll send someone to bargain with him for the dirt he collected on Narvin and the CIA. Never mind that there isn’t much of it, the point is that he has _secrets_ and they’re worth something, at least worth enough to leverage him out of this cell.

Once this bargain has taken place, he’ll be released and begin the process of putting his life back together. Sure, Leela might have been furious when she discovered what he’d done, but that was just her personality. She’s always worked up about something, ready to brawl over the slightest provocation. Once they’re together again, they’ll have a gloriously rowdy argument, and afterward she’ll forgive him and they’ll both forget this whole debacle ever happened.

These certainties descend upon him during the first five minutes he’s alone in his cell. Exuberant at the fact that his life is his own again, he shouts at no one, “I’m Andredaselus of the House of Deeptree, commander of the chancellery guard!”

“I don’t care if you’re Rassilon himself, shut the fuck up, Andred!” the guard outside barks in reply, banging something on the door.  

“Right,” he says, beaming because the guard used his real name. He lounges back onto the bunk in his cell, hands tucked beneath his head, and waits for his inevitable release.

As the days wear on, and no one else comes to see him – especially not the two people he needs most, Leela and the President – it dawns on him that his little deception might have had more far-reaching consequences than he’d anticipated. His mood begins to swing wildly: in his optimistic moments he imagines Leela pleading to the President on his behalf, begging for his freedom; but as his first day turns into his second day, and the second into the third, he grows increasingly worried and irritated.

The longer he’s left to sit and think through his choices, to wrestle with the aspects of his current personality that fit too comfortably into Torvald’s life, the angrier he feels. His anger focuses inward at first, analyzing and re-analyzing his choices since he first decided to launch his solo investigation. After he’s done castigating himself, his anger has nowhere to go, and it begins to turn outward.

By the time his visitors finally arrive, Andred is properly pissed off.

First comes Wynter, his new young Arcalian Castellan, wet behind the ears, officious, and as unsure of himself as a colt on new legs. Andred finds himself arguing, sneering and slipping into Torvald’s condescending tones when he doesn’t mean to. A few days later, Romana walks into his cell. Perhaps he ought to show a little more respect for the President of Gallifrey and All of Her Dominions, but what sort of leader would leave potentially valuable intelligence on the table for seven weeks? A goddamn unfit one, that’s what kind.

He doesn’t disguise his disdain when he speaks to her. He has just enough self-control to dangle the promise of his dirt on Free Time before blurting out his wife’s name: “Where’s Leela? She hasn’t been to see me, not even a message from K-9.” He immediately regrets his outburst, and curses himself for laying out his emotions so plainly in front of the President, of all people. To cover the raw nerve he just exposed, he spits his next words with a layer of sarcasm. "I _do_ feel unloved."  

Romana sputters in surprise at his bluntness and anger. He knows an outright pardon is a long shot, but he’d hoped at least for a hint of how he might earn his freedom. Instead, Romana leaves him with nothing except the knowledge that Leela hasn’t forgiven him. The wheels of justice don’t always turn quickly on Gallifrey, but Romana seems content to let them turn even more slowly than usual in this case. She might have outlawed the Oubliette of Eternity, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t leave him in this cell as an oubliette of another kind, to rot for a few millennia. Meanwhile outside these four walls, Leela gets older each day, her brief human lifespan spinning away, and he isn’t there to spend it with her.

In the week after Romana's visit, Andred’s cell door opens a handful of times as people come to bring food and ask him the same questions. Each time, his heart flies into his throat, and he thinks _this_ time will be different, _this_ time it will be his wife. Each time he's wrong, his anger gradually washes away, leaving only desperation behind.

And then one day his cell door opens, and in steps the one person he never wanted to see again at all.

Narvin leaves the guard outside and lets the door close, so the two of them are alone. He stands with his shoulders squared, his CIA robe and tabard starched and pressed within an inch of their lives. Dark circles shadow his eyes, the only evidence of vulnerability in his bearing.

Andred stays put on his bunk, slouched against the wall on the opposite side of the cell, and meets Narvin’s contemptuous gaze. The simpering, Torvald-like impulse in his bones urges him to snap to his feet and make a joke to ingratiate himself with the Coordinator. But he’s been working hard to excise every last trace of that personality from his consciousness since he was first incarcerated, so he firmly ignores it.

“Well, well, Commander,” Narvin says, surveying his beard and rumpled jumpsuit. “You look even worse than I imagined. I had no idea they didn’t allow access to personal hygiene materials in these cells.”

“Fancy meeting you here, Coordinator,” Andred replies, the title delivered with wry disdain. “You have some critiques to deliver on the report I gave to Castellan Wynter, I suppose. Found a few grammatical errors, that sort of thing?”

“I read the report,” Narvin says. “I’m here because I’d like to hear it directly from your mouth, Andred.”

He spent so many months listening to another man's name groaned into his ear, finally hearing the word _Andred_ on Narvin's tongue is strangely galvanizing. The lingering remains of his Torvald persona leap to attention as if hit with an electric shock, and suddenly he's on his feet and a step closer to the Coordinator without being sure of how he got there. Narvin gazes at him without a blink, any trepidation or titillation carefully shuttered behind a mask of professional contempt.

Andred swallows, staring into Narvin’s icy grey-blue eyes, and realizes that no matter his personal feelings at this point, the leader of Gallifrey’s most powerful secret organization is still worth his consideration. For all his other faults, Narvin is supremely competent and even more powerful than Romana, in many ways. Standing in front of him, Andred feels his desperation crest; his options for gaining his freedom are practically exhausted, and Narvin might very well be the end of the line.

He’s spent so much time with this man, seen glimpses of weakness and sentiment beneath his iron exterior; surely he can ingratiate himself again. Within a millispan he’s already considering what he’d be willing to do, to re-enter Narvin’s goodwill and earn his freedom. He’s long past feeling shame at how extensive and degrading that list has become.

“Commander, _sit_ _down_ ,” Narvin says, enunciating each word with the clear confidence of a man who knows he’s going to be obeyed.

“Yes, sir.” Andred reaches for the nearby desk chair and turns it around to face Narvin, then does as he’s told. He manages to maintain eye contact, at least, even as he has to lift his face to look up at the other man.

“I’m waiting.”

Because Andred knows his audience intimately, he puts his disdain for Romana on full display as he begins recounting his official version of the story. He highlights the angles most palatable to Narvin’s ears, lingering on the faults of Narvin’s enemies, confessing openly how surprised he was to find the CIA mostly faultless during his investigation. He steers far away from any reference to the nights the two of them spent together, even as his cheeks continue to warm under the other man’s flat gaze. “…and so I’ve been cooped up here by Wynter’s guards ever since the President dropped her holier-than-thou attitude toward mind-wipes and used one on Torvald.”

During his entire speech, Narvin’s demeanor hasn’t changed – not a twitch in his face, not a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes. He lets a long, ominous silence hang between them before replying, “I lost a good commander, Andred, when you killed him. And so now I have no one.” He pauses, almost as if savoring the effect his next words will have. “Inquisitor Darkel even suggested I take you into the CIA.”

Andred’s stomach churns, his neck tingling in anticipation. He thinks of all the things he’s done, and knows he’ll do it all again and more, if Narvin offers him the CIA’s protection and walks him out of this cell. It’ll complicate his ability to reunite with Leela for a while, but that can all be managed. “And?”

Narvin’s cold, disdainful expression slips for an instant, satisfaction flashing across his face as he replies, “You are useless to me, to Wynter, and to the President.”

 _Fuck._ Of course, he was an idiot to have harbored any hope. Narvin only came here to play with him, the same way a cat plays with a tafelshrew, tossing it around and watching it squirm. He slouches back in the chair, finally breaking eye contact. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Everything about you is compromised,” Narvin continues with hardly a pause. Andred can’t bring himself to look at him again, but the unmitigated glee in his voice is enough; he’s relishing Andred’s misery like the finest Borellian vintage. Andred is an embarrassment to him, personally and professionally, and the longer he rots in this cell, the happier Narvin will be.  

Frustrated at his inability to prevent tears from burning at the corners of his eyes, desperate for any sort of answer from anyone, Andred says, “So what place do I have here on Gallifrey? I mean, if I’m so useless to everyone, why won’t anyone let me go away from Gallifrey, out into the galaxy?”

“Running away?” Narvin makes a sound that could be mistaken for a laugh. “Yes, the first resort of the Chancellery Guard Commander I’ve come to know and loathe.”

“You hate me that much?” He finally looks up again, swallowing against the thick wad of despair in his throat.

Narvin stares back, his face slightly flushed, his hands in fists at his side. “Torvald was a fool, but he was my fool.” His next words are delivered with malice as sharp as a scalpel, like a surgeon cutting directly into a nerve. “You, however, belong to no one. I don’t want you. Wynter doesn’t want you, The President certainly doesn’t want you. Even your alien bride doesn’t want you.”

Narvin is a spook, he collects information for a living, and Andred suddenly realizes that Narvin _knows_. He knows precisely how much Leela hates him, he knows why she hates him, he shares her hate. It’s ironic, he thinks perversely, that his own choices gave the xenophobic Coordinator at least one thing in common with his savage alien wife. They could probably conduct a pleasant conversation over dinner, to discuss his shortcomings. “Thanks.”

But Narvin isn't finished with his meticulously composed and rehearsed speech. As if Andred hadn't spoken, he continues, "You belong to no one. No one wants you, because no one trusts you.”

Truth is truth, no matter the source, and these words drive home how deeply, desperately fucked Andred is. He’s alienated every last one of his potential allies. Narvin is right – he has no one at all. Torvald’s life was a prison, and this cell is even worse, because here he doesn’t even have the cold comfort of sleeping with the CIA Coordinator. Scrounging for any shield from these awful realities, Andred rolls his eyes and sneers, “I still have a role to play, apparently. I just don’t know what it is. You’re looking tired, Narvin. Overdoing it at the CIA? Chasing shadows exhausting you?”

“My lack of sleep is down to the stress brought on by wastes of space and time like you, Andred. I have nothing left to say to you.” He turns to the door, which buzzes open, and steps into the corridor outside. Sparing Andred one last glance, eyes glittering with loathing, he says, “Goodbye. I hope we won’t meet again.”

With those words, Narvin might as well have made an outright promise to do everything in his power to keep Andred locked away until every last one of his regenerations are spent.

The door buzzes closed, and Andred stares at the smooth white surface and listens to the soft hum of the air recirculation system and the beats of his own two hearts. Practically all of Gallifrey has declared him a pariah. He’s exhausted all of his options; at this rate, he’ll never again see the glimmer of suns-light on the Citadel’s dome, or feel the warmth of Leela’s smile and her human touch. He'll never have the chance to talk to her again, or apologize, or explain himself.

In this moment, Andred decides that no matter who walks into his cell next, no matter what they require, he’ll do whatever it takes to get out of here. He’s done trying to leverage information; he’s ready to be a blunt instrument in whoever’s hands reach for him first.

Narvin is long gone, but Andred replies aloud anyway as a promise to himself: “Oh I’m sure we will, Coordinator. You never know when I may just turn up and surprise you.”


End file.
